


Jedi Don’t Pray

by shatou



Series: Prayer Song [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Top Anakin Skywalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Between battles, all they have is each other.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: Prayer Song [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813123
Comments: 24
Kudos: 281





	Jedi Don’t Pray

Obi-Wan’s hand skims down his back.

Nobody in the room notices. It’s nothing conspicuous, after all. What’s a little friendly clasp between fellow generals? Between former master and apprentice too, at that. But of course, it doesn’t stop there, and only Anakin knows. It’s a languish trajectory from the highest curve of his spine to the small of his back. Fingers flex lightly when they pass between his shoulder blades, and he feels the press of Obi-Wan’s palm grow insistent as it slopes down along the planes of his back. It lasts only a few seconds more than the usual pat on the back, of course. Added up, though, it makes for a lifetime.

His former master has done this a thousand times over. When they’re standing at the frontline, staring down their challengers in an ultimatum. When they briefly brush each other on the battlefield, saber in hand and their mind reduced to reflexes and coups de génie if they’re lucky. When they retreat into a vessel, too proud to let their posture be anything but ramrod straight in front of their men. When there are eyes around, it’s never more, never less: just a smooth arc of the hand, warmth barely seeping through leather and cotton.

There is something both deeply satisfying and thoroughly enticing about that one simple gesture. Obi-Wan’s touch is comforting in all the ways, but this, this is tailored to meet the outsider’s eye. Because they cannot be public, this is how his master communicates affection to him - in the most down to earth way, no training bond or double-bladed words required. It’s Obi-Wan’s way of acknowledging their shared secret while protecting it, a sensual and subtle display that Obi-Wan devised just for him, to make sure he is not bereft. Of course the side effect is that it leaves Anakin in minuscule shivers and concealed goosebumps, wanting for more. It’s a reassurance as much as it is a promise.

Sometimes Anakin has to wonder if the side effect is actually the intention. Most of the time he doesn’t wonder anything at all. He's not thinking right now, as the door closes behind them and he presses Obi-Wan against durasteel, mouth on mouth. It’s a wonder enough that this is happening. His kisses stray to the corner of Obi-Wan’s lips, to his cheek, his jaw, open-mouthed on his throat, and Obi-Wan draws in a sharp breath.

And there is his hand again, smoothing down the long of Anakin’s spine. Anakin moans quietly against hot, bruised skin. He can feel on his lips the rumble of Obi-Wan’s stifled chuckle.

“What's gotten into you today?", he asks, as if Anakin has ever wanted this any other way.

"Nothing," Anakin breathes. "The question is, what's going to get in _you—_ "

"Honestly, Anakin." He can practically hear the eye-roll in Obi-Wan's lilt. Obi-Wan pulls him up by the collar to kiss him on the lips, a lot slower now, while his hand travels down past Anakin's hip and up his thigh again, slipping under tunic to squeeze his ass. Anakin groans and slots his knee between Obi-Wan's legs. They sigh in tandem. Obi-Wan pushes himself off the surface and walks Anakin backwards.

The bunk bed is not meant for two, but that has never stopped them. They are a moving equilibrium, rationing their opposite push-and-pull just right so that between kissing and sucking on each other's skin they find their way to bed. Obi-Wan settles, and Anakin kneels, peeling open every panel of fabric on his old master’s body, sash and tabards and tunic. He presses his mouth to exposed skin as he goes, neck then collarbone then chest. The copper-blond hair on Obi-Wan’s chest scrapes his lips, his chin. He doesn’t gentle when he reaches the splotches of battle bruise, but he kisses the smooth patches and raised ridges of scar tissues with veneration. Obi-Wan’s hand cups the base of his skull, finger pads kneading into his scalp. Anakin drops his shoulders and tilts his face up, eyes closed, as if in prayers. Jedi don’t pray, but the slaves of Tatooine do, and some things can’t be erased.

Obi-Wan brushes a thumb over his eyelid. Wordlessly he pries Anakin’s hands from him, and Anakin knows what he is doing. The gloves are tugged off almost reverently, his intact hand first and then the mechanical one. Lips press to the heel of his hand, then the sensitive line where flesh meets metal. “My heart,” Obi-Wan whispers.

Anakin pulls back and surges up. He pushes the rest of the clothes aside with twice the heat as before, pulling down robes and trousers until he’s gripping his master bare and his teeth graze against hip bone. Obi-Wan’s breaths are soft and quiet, as is he, and lost in the rustling of fabric, in the hums and groans at the back of Anakin’s throat. He presses Obi-Wan back, licks down his cock, breathes in the scent of sex, spine tingling. He doesn’t take the man right away, though there’s nothing patient about his hunger. It’s not so much teasing as it is his own need, to cover every inch of Obi-Wan with kisses, to mark the still-unmarred skin with more loving bruises. 

And when he does finally take Obi-Wan to the hilt, jaws slack and back of the throat pulsing against his girth, there’s a satisfaction that goes deeper than that of the body. There’s the knowledge of who it is. His heart pangs when fingers curl in his hair, too gentle. Anakin moans around the length, hands clamping down on taut muscles, urging Obi-Wan to thrust into him, use him, claim him. _Please want me._ Coarse hair brush the tip of his nose. He hears Obi-Wan, stifled little _ah_ s bouncing against soundproof walls. He’s trembling; they’re both trembling.

But he knows, from memory as well as from the present feeling, that Obi-Wan is holding back. A packet of bacta gel floats out of his pocket. When Anakin pulls back, he finds that Obi-Wan still has the wherewithal to shoot him an admonishing look, authority muted by the ear-to-ear flush.

“People have hands for a purpose, Anakin,” he chides.

Anakin grins and kisses the slit of his cock. “For this very purpose.” He slicks his fingers up, turning to drag his lips along the sensitive strip of skin at the junction of thigh and hip. His fingers ghosts over Obi-Wan’s entrance; he pushes two in without preamble. Obi-Wan heaves, and Anakin nuzzles his cheek against his quivering thigh as a quiet _Hey, relax_ before taking his cock shallow into his mouth again.

The pleasure of bringing pleasure is immense - he doesn’t learn this until rather later in his life, after all of his training has concluded. Like this, he doesn’t have to think about anything. He doesn’t need to think, only feel - the clench around his fingers, the tremor under him, the moans above him, the hand in his hair. Obi-Wan’s shields flutter in the Force as Anakin curls his fingers. He sees sunset behind his closed eyes. A gentle, shaky hand brushes stray hair from his forehead.

Obi-Wan says his name, a tight, urgent _Anakin_ . It’s a warning Anakin doesn’t heed. He is lost in the moment, only moaning at the tug in his hair. “Anakin,” again, “Anakin, _stop_ ,” but oh, the jerk of his hips betrays his needs. It’s not until Obi-Wan tugs him back hard that he slides off, looking up through heavy lashes. “What’s wrong—”

“No such thing,” his master soothes. “Come here, now.”

Anakin licks his swollen lips. Obi-Wan hauls him up before he rises himself, and he smiles when the man kisses him hungry. He doesn’t realize when his belt has been undone; his clothes come loose as Obi-Wan’s hands roam. He shivers openly this time as familiar calluses scrape lightly along his spine. "I like it when you do that,” he says, giddy. He can’t remember how many times he’s said it before.

Obi-Wan only says, “I know,” and shifts to align with the long of the bed. Anakin crouches between his parted legs. His chest seizes with something full and untainted and relentless. “I love you, Master,” he blurts. Obi-Wan looks at him, soft-eyed and tousled, and mouths, again, _I know_. It sinks under his skin like a deep-hearted prayer.

Their bodies slot together as one. Anakin’s breath stutters at the first thrust. He rolls his hips and sets a pace. Obi-Wan gasps beneath him, blunt nails dragging down his back. In moans and sighs and the occasional cries, they become wordless creatures of passion. _Passion, yet serenity._ He grips Obi-Wan’s hips, hooks a calf over his own shoulder. He doesn’t feel alone - not when they are joined like this, not when he’s listening, not when his master’s light illuminates his heart. _Emotion, yet peace._ He hears himself almost sob. His flesh hand wraps around Obi-Wan’s cock and Obi-Wan’s hand wraps around his hand.

“Anakin.”

“Yes?”

Obi-Wan smiles, eyes closed. His hair falls over his brows, caught in pale lashes. His mouth is agape, saliva glittering on pink lips as he throws his head back. He is always so silent when he comes. His body speaks for him, arching tight and clenching, convulsing. Has there ever been a sight more beautiful? Anakin snaps his hips into him, one, two hard strokes. He stills when he comes, moaning unabashedly. A drop rolls hotly off his face and lands on Obi-Wan’s cheek. He doesn’t know if it’s sweat or tear.

The heat slowly ebbs away. Anakin loops his arms around Obi-Wan, head tucked under his chin. Their knees knock against one another’s, what with their legs so tangled. His master hums, thumb rubbing little circles on the edge of his shoulder blade. Anakin recognizes the tune. He sighs against the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck, kisses the damp skin.

The melody trails off. “You are to lead the attacks tomorrow, aren’t you? Go to sleep. You don’t sleep nearly enough.”

“You don’t set the best example for that,” Anakin counters, despite his drooping eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Obi-Wan laughs. “However, you are meant to surpass me, Anakin. Meant for greater things, and you know well you do.”

Obi-Wan is here in his arms, yet his voice is so forlorn, so far away. _He’s sobering._ Anakin burrows himself deeper into the warmth, ignoring the pinpricks of fear that bloom cold in his guts. _Don’t go._ “Greater than you? I don’t think so.”

He clings to lightheartedness, but Obi-Wan must have sensed his agitation. He presses a kiss atop Anakin’s head. “Dear one, don’t be like that.” His hand slides down, splays over Anakin’s back, right behind his heart. “This is the present, and I’m here.”

He never says it, Anakin thinks. He never says the words. It’s always _I know_ and even a _So do I_ is rare. And though Anakin can feel the sentiment in every other way - in his kisses, in his caress, in his roundabout phrasings, in the little things he does - he still wants to hear it. He doesn’t press, though. Not now, not yet. Maybe not ever. He’s not a prudent man, but he knows better than to demand more from a miracle. _I love you_ he says, like it’s a prayer. He seeks a returning _I love you_ in the touch, when Obi-Wan’s hand skims down his back.

**Author's Note:**

> super super super slow smut basically; i suddenly feel self conscious about the snail-speed pacing so i wanna... clarify... that i don’t always write like this; i _swear_ my prose is usually more clean-cut


End file.
